<h2> Corny Bill </h2>
<p>His old clay pipe stuck in his mouth,<br/>
His hat pushed from his brow,<br/>
His dress best fitted for the South —<br/>
I think I see him now;<br/>
And when the city streets are still,<br/>
And sleep upon me comes,<br/>
I often dream that me an' Bill<br/>
Are humpin' of our drums.<br/>
<br/>
I mind the time when first I came<br/>
A stranger to the land;<br/>
And I was stumped, an' sick, an' lame<br/>
When Bill took me in hand.<br/>
Old Bill was what a chap would call<br/>
A friend in poverty,<br/>
And he was very kind to all,<br/>
And very good to me.<br/>
<br/>
We'd camp beneath the lonely trees<br/>
And sit beside the blaze,<br/>
A-nursin' of our wearied knees,<br/>
A-smokin' of our clays.<br/>
Or when we'd journeyed damp an' far,<br/>
An' clouds were in the skies,<br/>
We'd camp in some old shanty bar,<br/>
And sit a-tellin' lies.<br/>
<br/>
Though time had writ upon his brow<br/>
And rubbed away his curls,<br/>
He always was — an' may be now —<br/>
A favourite with the girls;<br/>
I've heard bush-wimmin scream an' squall —<br/>
I've see'd 'em laugh until<br/>
They could not do their work at all,<br/>
Because of Corny Bill.<br/>
<br/>
He was the jolliest old pup<br/>
As ever you did see,<br/>
And often at some bush kick-up<br/>
They'd make old Bill M.C.<br/>
He'd make them dance and sing all night,<br/>
He'd make the music hum,<br/>
But he'd be gone at mornin' light<br/>
A-humpin' of his drum.<br/>
<br/>
Though joys of which the poet rhymes<br/>
Was not for Bill an' me,<br/>
I think we had some good old times<br/>
Out on the wallaby.<br/>
I took a wife and left off rum,<br/>
An' camped beneath a roof;<br/>
But Bill preferred to hump his drum<br/>
A-paddin' of the hoof.<br/>
<br/>
The lazy, idle loafers what<br/>
In toney houses camp<br/>
Would call old Bill a drunken sot,<br/>
A loafer, or a tramp;<br/>
But if the dead should ever dance —<br/>
As poets say they will —<br/>
I think I'd rather take my chance<br/>
Along of Corny Bill.<br/>
<br/>
His long life's-day is nearly o'er,<br/>
Its shades begin to fall;<br/>
He soon must mount his bluey for<br/>
The last long tramp of all;<br/>
I trust that when, in bush an' town,<br/>
He's lived and learnt his fill,<br/>
They'll let the golden slip-rails down<br/>
For poor old Corny Bill.<br/></p>
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